A Child's Heirloom
by Ieyre
Summary: In the back of his mind, The Dark One can't shake off the feeling that Henry sees more than he should, but with the boy taking such a keen interest in his past and forging a bond with his grandfather in particular...well, it's hard for him to say 'no', isn't it? Rumple and Pan!Henry, in between 309 and 310, parental love in its most loving and most toxic dysfunctional explored.


It took sitting down on the edge of his makeshift bed in the side galley for Rumplestiltskin's legs to collapse. He felt tired in the way that ordinary men do; not having been one for a few centuries, the dull throbbing in his leg was distinct.

He was _so_ tired.

And weary. And old. He looked down at his right hand, realizing that his fingers were gripping the object so tightly they'd begun to bleed; Rumple had not let go of Pandora's Box since the last time he had (_and would_) open it. He released the innocuous-looking cube and let it plop, gently, on the coarse fabric of the bed next to him.

He began the process of humanizing himself, in as far as he could. Rumple started to remove the leather jacket, soaked with sweat and smelling unmistakably of humid jungle—when a trinket fell out of the front pocket and into his lap.

The cornhusk doll looked up at him, or it would have, if the fellow had any face to speak of. He'd had it tucked next to his heart for almost a week, since Felix had returned him, since the island itself had forced him to unearth this earliest and deepest pain, had forced him to admit that whatever lies he told himself over the centuries…he'd never really let it go.

He picked it up. It weighed so much less than he remembered.

"What's that?"

Gold started and looked up at the doorway, where he was surprised to see his only grandson standing in silhouette, leaning against the frame of the door. The light behind Henry gave the illusion of the lad being older than he was—taller. He was growing up, his grandfather thought, wistfully.

"Can I—" the boy hesitated for a second at the doorway, fiddling with his hands. "Can I come in?"

"Of course—" He sat up straighter, his mood perking at the sight of the son who looked so much like his father did at that age. "You don't ever have to ask, Henry, please do."

He didn't have to say it twice. Henry closed the door behind him and scuttled over, plopping down on the bed in a flash. Gold blinked, surprised. The child had never been easy with him, exactly—given his antagonistic relationship with Regina, this skittishness was natural. Even after learning of their blood tie (_or perhaps because of it_, he thought, chagrined) they hadn't had a pleasant moment together, never mind a warm one.

To see the boy so guilelessly unafraid was welcome.

"So…" Henry pointed to his straw companion, still innocently lying on his right leg. "Why do you have a doll?"

"Do I seem too old for dolls?" Gold laughed, uneasily. Henry laughed with him, as if to put _him _at ease.

"No. It just seems weird for you to have one…what I mean is—" The boy's face flashed with penetration for a half-second. "Who gave it to you?"

_What an astute boy you've grown into._

A hundred falsehoods danced enticingly before his eyes—eyes that now looked down into his grandson's—Bae's eyes, and he found his mouth forming words he'd never said to a single living soul.

"My father gave it to me, when I was a boy, younger than you."

"You mean Peter Pan?" Henry asked, immediately. His grandfather leaned heavily on his knees, the muted sounds of the rest of the rescue party dimly registering. The boy was not immune to the whispers of his parents and grandparents, apparently.

"Yes. In fact—" He picked up the doll with great care and held it out to Henry, who took it from him with equal reverence. "Meet the _original _Peter Pan."

"What do you mean, 'original'?"

"He…" A twinge of long-buried emotion colored his next words. "…Took the name from this."

"I don't understand—" The boy frowned, and he seemed much younger again, his own age. "Are you saying…your dad named himself after your doll?"

Peter Pan sat cradled in his grandson's lap, but the boy's penetrating dark eyes—his own eyes—had not once left Mr. Gold's face.

"Why would he do that?"

"If I understood why he does what he does, my boy, we would have rescued you much sooner—"

"Did he ever tell you?"

"Yes," he replied, surprised at his own candor and Henry's odd intensity. Something was dancing behind those eyes, some familiar fire burning he could recognize but not place. "My—Pan said it was because he…well, that it was his way of remembering me by."

"_Don't think for a moment I believe it's because you care for me."_

"_But I do."_

"Did you believe him?"

"What?" Rumplestiltskin snapped out of the memory with a start.

"Your father—when he said that he kept the name because he cared about you—" _Did I say that out loud? _Henry rested the doll's head in his grandfather's hand, softly. The worn straw was the only thing connecting them in that moment. "Did you think he was telling the truth?"

"Henry…" He lowered himself to the lad's eye level. "I'm sure you understand, because you've had such a difficult relationship with your own mother—sometimes—" He sucked in a shuddering breath. "Sometimes our feelings when a person we're…close to hurts us are much more complicated and muddled for that very reason. If it were anyone else…even when everything is telling you that you shouldn't care—you can't help yourself. Does that make any sense to you, at all?"

Henry nodded, slowly, though he still looked a little unsure. He offered up an apologetic shrug and looked down at the floor.

"I didn't mean to make you _sad,_ I guess I just…wanted to know more about you, since we're family and all—" The boy started to stand up, head still hung low. "I'm sorry… _grandpa_."

Henry had never called him that before. He lingered over the word, trying it on to see if it fit. Rumplestiltskin had not realized how badly he wanted that title, the spoken role in Bae's son's life, until it left the lad's lips. He pulled him back down onto the bed.

"I told you you had nothing to be sorry for—there's no crime in being a curious boy, eh?" He ruffled Henry's hair, and the lad leaned into his touch, warmly.

"It must be hard…" Henry started, hesitantly. "…Hating your dad so much."

"I don't." Gold was looking down at the doll, and so he missed the shrewd, piercing look the boy fixed on him. "I don't think I could if I wanted to."

He did not catch the flicker of an emotion in the lad's face Henry had no _possible _way of knowing.

"But you don't think he cares about you in the same way? You didn't believe him…?"

The man looked up again. From the way he was staring, Rumplestiltskin would have thought Henry's whole world turned on his answer.

"No, I didn't." The boy's face froze, and Gold, talking more to himself than his grandson, continued recklessly, "…I wanted to, though. More than anything I _wanted_ to believe him."

A few seconds passed, and Henry Mills' young face unfroze. It hovered a moment in an unsure place, somewhere between settled emotions, before easing into a watery smile. He then did something Rumplestiltskin, with all his soothsaying abilities, could have never predicted.

He hugged his grandfather. Jumped onto him, embraced him—tightly, fiercely, almost aggressively. He caught the older man so off-guard that Rumple was bowled over by it. Henry had not hugged the pawnbroker once in his short life, now the poor boy was hanging onto his grandpa like his life depended on it.

"Henry, lad, are you—" Unmistakable hot tears soaked his front—_he was crying. _Rumplestiltskin pulled the boy closer to him, ran one weathered hand, still caked with mud and blood, down his grandson's back. His voice lowered to a gentler decibel."It's alright, now—you're _safe_ now, Henry, do you hear me?"

Face still muffled by his grandfather's shirtfront, Henry only clutched him tighter. _He's been through so much. _The feeling of another young boy in his arms warmed the man too much to leave room for him to wonder at why this was happened. All that mattered was making the boy feel as loved and safe as he was.

"Did something happen, my boy?" Gold asked the boy, carefully helping him sit upright again.

"No." Henry sniffed and wiped his eyes—still not looking into his grandfather's. "I was just thinking…about how glad I am that we're together right now—like this."

"I'm glad too, Henry." He gave the boy's hand a squeeze. Man and boy sat together for a little while longer, in a silence more comfortable than Gold would have expected.

"I have something to discuss with your father. Are you alright on your own, or should I call someone in to stay with you?"

"I'm okay." He extricated himself, with some reluctance, from Grandpa Gold's arms.

"Good lad." The man rose from the bed, picking up his walking cane from its place, leaned up against the sideboard, and took a step towards the door.

"I'm glad we could talk…grandpa," Henry said, to Rumple's back. The man noted dimly how the word rolled off the boy's tongue much more smoothly this time.

"The first of many, I'm sure."

As he made his way to the door, there was a lightness in Rumple's step, a buoyancy in his soul he had not felt in _many_ years. Henry was the future of his family—for the first time, he felt that the scale of his life was tipped in favor of the future.

"You can't forget Peter Pan."

Right as he reached the door, he froze.

"What—" Rumplestiltskin turned back around, slowly, to find that same young boy looking up at him with the large brown eyes they shared. An inexplicable wave of fear had rushed over him all at once, but the sight of the grandson he was quickly growing to love muted it again. "—What did you say?"

Henry took three perfectly even steps towards him and pulled something from behind his back out.

"You dropped him by accident," Henry, smiling, held out the cornhusk man. "You can't forget him."

He breathed again. _Of course…the doll._

"Why don't you hold onto it, Henry?" He pushed the door out with his good leg, harder than necessary—the cabin had become oppressive. "Keep him safe."

"I will!" A small voice called out as the door swung shut behind him. The man was so quick to go in search of his son, and trying to shake off the unsettled feeling pricking at the back of his neck, that he missed Henry's last words, said softly and with unshaking finality. "I promise."

Someone else _did_ go to check in to check on Henry, in spite of the assurances that he was fine. And he was—fine. He wasn't _perfectly_ fine, but things were looking up.

"Did you get what you needed?"

"Oh, yes," the boy replied, quietly, turning the thatch doll in his hands over and over again. His expression was distant. "He just required some effort, as well."

Felix noticed the familiar child's trinket—and he frowned.

"You got it back?"

"Temporarily." Henry smiled, and his eyes shone with an unnatural confidence. Tear streaks were still clearly visible on the boy's cheeks, even in the dim light of the cabin. "Next time I return it, I'll do it myself."

He stowed Peter Pan in his pocket.

There would be time for that later—there would be time for everything.

**This is probably not canon compliant anymore, but I liked the idea of some kind of bizarre quasi-paternal feelings factoring into Peter's plotting during the events of 309-311. And I just love Pan and Rumplestiltskin's horrible dysfunctional hot mess of a relationship in general.**


End file.
